In horror movies you watch helplessly from your small seat in the theater as a leathery faced killer slowly approaches his victim who. Defying all laws of physics, despite that the terrified prey is running, the killer manages to get ahead of them simply by strolling. Typically he’s carrying some sort of blunt force trauma device like a tire iron or a wagon wheel, though since the days of Unfaithful one can no longer rule out the snow globe. Sitting there, watching with clenched fists as the murdering psychopath plays wack-a-mole on the face of a poor camper, you think to yourself, “wow…I wonder how terrifying it would be to find myself in that situation?”
“Take that you stupid mole!!!”
I know this because I too have asked that very same question many times. Typically it’s after I’ve been suckered into attending another amateur jazz flute improv, and I fantasize about being killed by something far less cruel then the butchering of the pentatonic scale.
The thing about watching horror movies is that it’s like aftermath that results in coming up with a secret formula to make a rolling ball of honey. It’s completely liquid and yet somehow it maintains the shape of a ball. Horror movies are like this because when you take this ball of honey that defines logic and the laws of dispation handed down to us by the flatualites of ancient Greece and you roll it, everything around sticks to it.
As it gains momentum and the world begins to quiver at the quaking food storage of winter bees, you find not only do you see horror images in the sketchy person hiding behind the dumpster with the kitchen knife and the sign that says “I’ll murder for food”, but you begin to see it in everything. Your bowl of lucky charms. The robin that dove just a little to close. The old lady on the motorized cart. What did she REALLY want when she asked me over to help fix her cabinets?
Note the slight sneer? That’s a classic case of sweet old lady who wants to can you in pickling brine.
Eventually over years and years of digesting horror flicks you find your thoughts get warped, molded and funneled into a giant rolling honey ball of nervous anticipation where suddenly the world is no longer filled with teddy bears and butterscotch but Freddy Kruegers, Jason Voorhes and Killer Clowns from Outer Space. So when, like me, you’ve watched and played with horror movies since the time you could pick up a rubber clever and preform surgery on your stuffed Teddy Rockspin, and something happens that brings up flashes of gruesome murder scenes, you begin to feel exactly what they do in the movies. And let me tell you…it’s not very pleasant. I know because it happened to me on my way to Portland.
When I arrived in Sacramento it was around 6 PM. I sent out some feelers to the local dancers, but nothing materialized from it. It was getting dark and I was right next to the I-5 so I decided to walk North until I found a good spot for hitching the next day. It only took me about an hour to make my way to the outskirts of the city where I came upon an area of prime hitchhiking real estate. There were multiple motels and gas stations stretching down one main road that would lead all these morning travelers right to me.
I decided it was time to look for a place to crash that night, so I began a scoping journey. What I could not see through my sleep-a-scope because it lay just over the horizon of my iPhone clock was something lurking that I had playfully imagined as a kid in order to frighten myself and my friends for fun. The cold hand of terror hoovered just above my shoulder, but I had gone intuitively cross eyed and was unable to see it. When it finally came down, it was almost too late.
Everywhere I went had no places for me to sneakily hide myself. After a deal of searching I decided to take a path into the dark woods. As I walked, the lights steadily got darker and I began to see shapes of people hidden in the shadows of the bushes. A strong sense of nervousness came over me as I became hyper alter. I’m sure somewhere in the back drawers of my subconcious was the warnings of a kindergarten teacher who made mention of watching out for shadow puppets that weren’t really puppets hiding in the bushes and that began to set off my internal alarms.
“As you can see kids, the equation clearly states that {X(shadow figure) + Y(dark bushes)} x 300Z(hours spent watching scary movies) = crap your pants.”
Suddenly something shot out of the underbrush right near me. ”WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!!!” my mind screamed as I jumped backwards. When my eyes adjusted, I saw it was an animal. And not just any animal, a skunk. ”Great!” I thought. If there’s one thing that will guarantee me getting only about 50 yards with any ride it will be if I show up smelling like the dirty laundry of the apocalypse.
Laugh now, but just like in horror movies, when the black cat jumps out to scare the audience and temporarily relieve the tension, everyone knows that the real danger lies just around the corner with a string section of eerie violins following close behind.
I made my way down towards a small lake to see if I could set up a place on the beach. When I got there, I looked around and damn it! There was another skunk. Then another. When did the skunk become Sacramento’s city mascot? I really didnt want one of those things mistaking me as food and giving me a shot of Calvin Klein’s newest fragrance “Restraining Order of 100 Yards” instead. As I watched them scamper off into the darkness, I turned around and saw something. I couldn’t make it out at first for it was too dark. As my eyes adjusted and I finally understood what I was seeing, my heart filled with terror.
Walking directly towards me in the shadows was a lone dark figure.
It’s easy to be touch when you’re preparing yourself for something ominous. To say, “in this situation I’d do this or that” and a bunch of other blah blah blah bullshit. When something comes upon you suddenly, all that goes away and you’re left with nothing but raw instinct and powerful emotions.
As I watched this dark shadow move not kind of near me, or in the same vicinity, but directly at me, my hand gripped my mace so hard that if I missed shooting this person, I would use it to help beat this person to death. As it got closer my heart began to pound more wildly. It’s one thing to imagine what you’ll do but another to execute it. My body was becoming pure adrenaline and fear. Like the fear of what might be lurking beneath the ocean waters you’re swimming in, this person had no face, no distinguishing features. It was a shadow that moved with unknown motives, leaving my imagination to run rampant over all the horrifying possibilites.
“I gotta say, of all the possibilites, I didn’t think he’d do this to me.”
He was within 15 yards of me when suddenly he stopped. A light flicked on from his head and I saw his body descend into a trash can. He was a homeless man looking for cans to collect. ”Holy shit!” I sighed as my rusty third grade karate training which was probably somewhere in the back of my cerebral cortex gorging on Pop Tarts, reading “Eat More: Be A Pacifist” eased from defcon 4 to defcon “let’s find a change of underwear.”
Of all things, that thus far the most frightening moment of my trip. Perhaps the greatest fear of anyone is the unknown, and when it comes in a form like that, a multitude of mental images you don’t want breaching the surface race to tell you just what it might be. The ice cream man is not of them I’ll tell you that.
Tune in next time when I tell you about my unique sleeping arrangement, some new pals, and how in the midst of coming down from “terror alley” I almost got jumped.
Take a step. How’d it feel? Take another. Now another. How about one more for good measure. Satisfied? If not and you’re at work, try moaning like a mongoose. Had Mic Jagger witnessed someone trying this, the Stones never would have had their hit single.
“I can’t get no/ Satisfaction/ When I’m walking down the street/ And a man walks up to me/ And I say ‘Eek, eekie, eekie, eek!’/ And he yells, ‘what sort of mongoose could he be?’/ That’s when I’ll get my … … …/ A hey hey hey!” Just like brushing up on your Shakespeare, some of you may need to brush up on your Stones. Back now to talking about steps.
The infamous Irish Jig Mongoose.
Ok, so to recap we had step, step, step, step, and one step for good measure. Hell let’s get crazy and throw one more in. Each one of those steps was about a foot. Now throw on a large back pack that could fit a small human inside and repeat that step 3,363,360 times on hard asphalt. Yep… That’s how far it was to Portland. Welcome to life on the motha fucka!
“Take one more step, I dare you, I double dare you motha fucka! Take a step one more time!!!”
San Francisco proved to be quite difficult to leave after the incredibly raucous time I had with my old high school friend Beth. There are some people you knew when you were younger that after reconnecting with them you wonder how in the world you ever dared share a locker. Beth was the opposite. Though we only did a few theater shows together and hung out a hand full of times in high school, our personalities aged like fine wine together.
To tell you of our time together would be to like reading a letter in German if all you spoke was crayon scribbles. Too many inside jokes. However, I did get to bare witness to one of the finest parking jobs in the history of mankind, as Beth performed an 800 point parking job on a 45 degree slope with a stick shift. Such feats few have ever had the privilege of baring witness to.
Da front
Da rear
Every time I leave to go hitchhiking there usually is a bit of resistance. I know it will be challenging, I know my body will probably ache after it and I know when I get to where I’m going I’ll be chomping at the bit to perform sexual favors on any local chiropractors so they’ll adjust me. There is also another reason. Being that I travel like this with no health insurance, very little money and no idea what will happen, my sense of mortality readily comes up to stare me directly in the eyes.
It’s a powerful sensation and one that is easier to overlook when you’re a teenager. But the longer you are here, the more that snake bobs its head in and out of your awareness until you finally are forced to face it head on. It brings with it frigtening unknows and hard questions. As I begin almost every knew journey, I face this. It has become a companion. I’m not certain whether to call it a friend or an addiction in the way that some soldiers can be addicted to the adrenaline of battle. When you are put on the edge, you feel alive. Often, when I walk out the door to face the unknown, it is the most alive I ever feel. Sometimes terrified, but alive.
“I knew a man once who said, ‘death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back.’”
“Was it Crocodile Dundee?”
“Hmmmm… so you’ve heard about the smiling crocs? Apparently my acting isn’t covering up this Aussie accent.”
I now want to take you all on an adventure. My spectacular adventure of van chases, hijackings and a bag of almonds to keep me satiated. Are you ready?
After maneuvering around the local BART system, which is Bay talk for their metro rail, I eneded up at the bus stop. I wanted to see if there was a way to get to Sacramento which was almost an hour and a half north. When I asked the bus driver, a jive talkin black woman who was as sweet as a jolly rancher if that was possible, she told me she could get me half way there. She also mentioned that the bus that would take me the rest of the way stopped running at 4 PM.
“What time is it now?”
“4 PM.”
Shit! Well, I figured I would take the bus anyways and see if I could hitch to Sacramneto. When we pulled in, I hoped out and asked one of the drivers who was taking a smoke break if there were any buses that could take me up to Sacramento. To my surprise he pointed at a lone bus and said, “hurry up and catch that one. That’s exactly where it’s going!”
Shocked and surprised as it was clearly 45 minutes after 4 PM (I know, I looked) I grabbed my bag and ran to catch it. When I got to the door, I looked up to see a stern faced thin man with eyes slightly sunken who looked like he had followed every rule ever given to him by the age of newly formed sperm.
Toooourissssssts…
“Are you going to Sacramento?” I asked.
“Yes, but I only bring passangers from there, I don’t take any of them back.”
What the fuck is that bullshit, I thought. I’m sorry, but we make so much money we can afford to deny 50% of our clientele. I asked him if he could make an exception this one time. He shook his head no. Damb obedient sperm with a torso.
This is why we don’t allow stupid sperm in the gene pool. There’s a 68% chance they’ll take over our buses and make idiotic policies. ”I’m sorry but you can’t get on because we decided to stop letting people sit on the left side of the bus.”
I walked back to the sweet, jive talkin black lady who unbeknownst to me had been telling my story to the other bus drivers. Bus drivers and one upper management employee named Bob. How is it the name of all blue collar management officials is Bob? It’s never Edward or Francisco or Ingelbert. My motto is going to be: when in trouble, find yourself a Bob. Don’t bob for apples, bob for Bob.
When I walked up, Bob was already on the walkie talky asking if it was ok for the ultra-obedient driver to take me to Sacramento. I got very excited. What a score! As we waited for the answer from upper management (apparently this kind of thing is a big deal and has to be approved, re-approved, and then put into a cage to defeat a hungry tiger with only day time television as a weapon) I turned in dismay to watch the bus going back to Sacramento pull out of the station and drive away.
“Quick! Someone pull a Speed and blow it up!” I yelled. Probably not the best thing to say but it was worth a shot.
“Have you tried driving under 50 mph? It’s the new big thing.”
I thanked Bob and the lady driver for there efforts and began to walk off, when Bob got a response on his walkie. He turned to me and hastily said, “grab your stuff and follow me.” As my excitement and hope began to rise, he took me to a van.
“Throw your stuff in! We’re going after him!”
We hoped in and sped off to chase down the empty multi-ton metro ride with a sever case of stupid rule-ism set down by the oligarchy of the financially damned. The call came through to the other driver and we saw him pull over to the side of the road. Hot damn I was about to commandeer my first bus and I didn’t even have a gun! Just an attitude that said “don’t fuck with me, I hitchhike.”
“I have a thumb here people and I ain’t afraid to use it!!!”
I thanked Bob, hoped out and rode 45 minutes to Sacramento. This was turning out to be a good day.
Bob the wonder stud
Tune in next time where I’ll talk about how I almost got jumped, met some interesting sleeping partners and found out that the city animal of Sacramento is not what you might think.
When I was a Sophomore in high school my dad invited me to a wedding. This was no ordinary wedding either, it was my cousin’s. Most of you with cousins are probably thinking, “unless it was two of your cousins marrying each other beneath a harvest moon next to the Arkansas River, than I’m failing to see the significance.” Though I understand how your convictions over the acceptable legality of marriage between two people whose genetic proximity make it possible for their spawn to be born as the “Toad Baby” while gay marriage is still seen as unholy, that’s not why.
The reason it was particularly unique is because my cousin’s mom was married to the own of the San Francisco Giants.
Because gay marriage could never create something this beautiful
To give you an idea of the grandeur of this wedding, they spent over a half million dollars on flowers alone. Flowers. Anyone who has ever read and followed the statutes stipulated in the book known only in this blog, “How To Make Her Valentine’s Day More Memorable Than Being Maced At An Occupy” has an idea how much money it would take to reach the half a million marker in terms of flower purchases.
A pledge drive for Alzheimer’s would be lucky to pull in even half that much dough, even if it were being hosted by Alf himself. So if that was how much they spent on flowers, you can image how the rest of the wedding was. Let’s just say it went beyond personal pan pizzas and individual kaleidoscopes for everyone. Unfortunately for me, auditions for a musical fell right on the date I would need to fly out, so I missed this spectacular event. Pajama Game be damned!
Yeah it seems we didn’t hit the numbers we were hoping for. Apparently even my non-Alzheimer fans forgot who I am.
Many years later a friend of mine named Matt asked me to take a road trip with him out to Tacoma, WA. On our way there we would would stop in San Francisco, stay a few days, then head up North hitting a few key cities. The Golden Gate Brige, Alcatraz, and the big San Fran sign from Arachnophobia were just a few of my desired destinations. I was excited and primed to go to this amazing city I had heard so much about. That was until Fate, as before, decided to have a change of heart.
A few days before our departure, Matt ran over a rock in the road. There were no “rock crossing” signs posted, nor any warnings that rocks in those parts showed high levels of aggression. Nonetheless, a rock jumped out of nowhere and struck the undercarriage of his car, which led Matt to having to make some repairs.
Had it been Rock-N-Hop Ave, he would have been more apt to avoid loitering granite
His insurance company at first gave him the run around. This delayed our departure. Soon afterwards, he had to get a piece of his car fixed, but it would take them an extra day to get the piece in. Another delay. By this time, two of the three days we would spend in San Fran had been eaten up. We still wanted to go though. There was only one last thing we needed: to pick up a bike rack that had just been shipped in so Matt could bring his bike with him (he was moving all his stuff to school).
When we arrived at the auto dealership that had the rack, a very peculiar thing happened. When we lifted the box to put it in the trunk it felt light. A little too light. Upon opening it up we discovered that, due to the pressures that come with doing nothing during the non-holiday rush, they had put the straps in the box, but had somehow forgotten to put in the frame.
Out there, roaming the hills like a Sasquatch, is a person who has two very distinguishing qualities. One, they only show up fuzzy on camera, and two, they have no depth perception in terms of weight. To them, 35 pounds feels identical to 8 pounds. Unfortunately, such an ailment could not even garner a fraction of what my cousin spent on flowers if they threw a pledge drive for it, so this bane of humanity still exists and wanders the country side terrorizing bikers with frame-less bike racks.
Well if it isn’t the fuzz
Needless to say, we had to cut San Francisico out of our trip. Because of this, San Francisco has always stood like a Bermuda Triangle where all my plans to get there get swallowed up into a mysterious abyss of odd timings and missed opportunities. After more than a decade of trying to get there without success, I figured it had all been an omen telling me that I had to wait for the time when I was worthy to enter its Golden Gates.
Now as a man hitchhiking his way around the country on the great American adventure, it was the perfect time to come to the city of love, gay districts and all you can eat fog. However, it wasn’t quite ready to make it easy for me. In the same spirit it had shown me multiple times before, when I tried once again to enter its boarders, it threw me a loop that almost scuttled my plans once again.
Dear Wesley,
Here’s to your hitchhiking plans. Fuck off!
Yours Truly, San Francisco
Being that Emerald City Blues was rapidly approaching I knew I had to take advantage of ride share programs more than normal. I caught a ride with two guys from Hollywood into Freemont, a city that is about an hour long train ride South of the Bay area. After enjoying some time with a few local dancers, one of them dropped me off at the BART (the public train) around 10 PM. I was shooting to get to Friday night blues where a friend of mine was djing. Things were looking up. My time had finally come. Enter now the mysterious omen of doom.
As I sat at the train station waiting, I watched train after train go by, each going to a destination that I didn’t want to go to. I paced back and forth for almost an hour, perplexed as to why and how my train had not come yet. Finally, after deciding something was off, I asked one of the workers there when my line would arrive.
“Oh, you have to take the so and so train to some random spot and get off there. You’re connecting train will be there.” Her directions were a bit more decriptive than my memory serves.
I had no idea why this wasn’t specified anywhere clear as it had now set me back an hour, but no worries. I caught the next train and exited where I was told to get off. That’s when I heard something that made my ears cringe and blood race. Pushing close to midnight, I stepped off the train where I had been directed to get off. Just before the doors to the train closed someone yelled from within if they should stay on if they needed to get to San Francisco. Someone on the platform shouted yes. I spun around quickly but the doors had already closed. What the hell had just happened?
As I stood there watching the train pull away a man walked by me and said, “I hope you aren’t waiting for another train cause that was the last one.” Seeing my face, three loitering gangsters walked by me laughing, “what you gonna do now huh?” Confused and irritated at the misdirection, I walked downstairs and found two employees. After explaining my situation they said, “we apologize for the incompetence of our employee, but there’s nothing we can do. Next train doesn’t leave till 6 AM tomorrow.”
“Great!” I fumed. “And just where am I supposed to stay till then?” They suggested I go home. When I told them I had no home and was hitchhiking, they tried another approach.
“Hmmm… well you can take the bus. It will take longer, but it will get you where you need to go. It just costs $5.”
“I SPENT the last $5 I had on the BART!!! I don’t have $5!” I was now feeling as if San Francisco had it in for me. I was the prodigal son whom it decided would be a liability if it decided to have a political career, so it kept the fatten calf for the other kid and told me to sod off English style. Just when I thought I had been foiled again, my answer came to me in the form of a stranger.
A younger man who looked like a TM student and one of George Harrison’s fans from the 60s walked up to me and handed me $5. “Here you are. You look like you need this more than I do.” I stood there a moment amazed, then quickly grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you, you saint of the metro bus!” I don’t know the name of the real saint who is in charge of public transportation, but for now this guy was a fine substitute. I caught the bus and after a long ride, it finally happened.
George Harrison Look Alike: the patron saint of hitchhikers
I peered out of a dark window, looking over a city scape speckled with yellow lights and found myself finally crossing the Bay Bridge into my own personal Forbidden City. It had taken me four extra hours to do so, but I was finally here. I had breached the wall. At 2 AM, the city that had for so long kept me at arms length, finally welcomed me into her arms and I now realize why.
I fell in love with San Francisco, but man did she make me work for it. Sometimes the ones that make you work for it turn out to be the most meaningful. They can be the ones who stick with you the most. In this case, after over a decade of trying and a last ditch effort to deny me, the city of love finally made love to me. And it was oh, so very delicious.
Some things are hard to leave behind. The Bahamas. Count Chocula. That holiday weight you gained from the four helpings of pie. And most especially, San Diego after being treated like a Prince.
The Fonz of breakfast cereal
After making my through the desert, I had fallen into luxery’s lap at the hands of Jeff Eldridge, the patron saint of having a great time. But just like Arrested Development, all great things must come to an end. After a blissful week, San Diego eventually saw me off. It was time for me to make my way to LA.
One of the most frequent questions I’m asked when I tell people I hitchhike around the country is “are you ever scared? What about all the crazies out there?” My response is, no. I’m not scared. My experience is that everyone who has picked me up has been either wonderfully generous or adventurous. So when I made my way up to LA, I didn’t know that I was about to get a sample of what people had warned me about. A car ride that filled my brain with images from every slasher movie and its 35 sequels including the ones set in space.
It forgot to say “One Giant Autowreck For Irish Culture”
Hitchhiking in California is a bit tricky. It’s illegal to walk on the highway which irks me because my relationship stats say I’m a Scorpio, who loves food, Sting and long walks on the highway. In short, the Interstate 5 was killing my romantic sentiments. I had waited on an onramp for about an hour when I decided it was time to walk. This time I had to walk the streets.
Like Tom Hanks, pacing down the gray, steam filled streets of Philadelphia to the morose sounds of Bruce Springtein, I walked my way down the sunny, mist filled steets of San Diego to the glam rock sounds of WHAM. Things have a tendency to change when you rise above the 70 degrees farenheit marker.
Alchemy: the science of turning an Oscar winner into a Zoolander throw back
As I made my way up a side street, a car passed me and stopped. It quickly pulled around and opened its window. It was a young man and girl, around the ages of 23-24.
“We saw you carrying a bag and thought you might like a ride. Where you going?”
“LA”
“Hmmmm…how about up the street?”
“Works for me.”
Ah, the good ol’ up the street. Collect all 100 and not only do you get a full 2 miles closer to your destination, but you also get a free copy of OJ Simpson’s ebook, Getting The Most Out Of Your White Bronco. I threw my stuff in and we took off. Though we weren’t going far, they agreed to take me to a high traffic onramp.
At first, our conversations were humerous and joking. These two were a lot of fun. Soon afterwards they began to talk about the occupy movement. It was here a deep well of frustration and passion began to pour out of them. Especially the guy. They ranted on how they felt school and their teachers had lied to them about what they needed to do in order to to get a good job and life.
“Go to a good college, study hard and a job will be waiting for you. It’s bullshit!” the young man vented. ”We both went to prestigious colleges, graduated with great marks and she’s unemployed and all I can get is a crappy job I hate that takes me an hour to get to.” They vented their rage and then turned and asked what I thought about the Occupy movement and the belief that in order to make a life, you go to a good college, get a good job and everything work out.
“Big Brother says ‘just add one part college, two parts steady job, three parts marriage and kids, bake for 35 years and voi la! You’ll have yourself a perfect loaf of Life Bread.’”
I told them I had not paid a great deal of attention to the occupy movement. I rarely read the news for I find it too negative. I then looked them both in the eyes and told them my personal philosophy. ”Since I was young, whenever anyone asked me what I wanted to do or be when I grew up, I always said ‘I want to be me’. That was it. There was never a set image, nor any specific path drawn up for me to follow. All I knew was that I wanted to be happy.
“I never bought into the college fantasy and when I tried it, I found it didn’t fit me. My heart simply told me, ‘find what you love to do and do it.’ Even going to Culinary School wasn’t about landing a great chef job. Working in kitchens in the traditional sense had absolutely no appeal to me. I just knew that food intrigued me and so I decided to learn about it. That’s how I live my life. Whether it was music, acting, dance or food I always followed what made me happy. Where my passions took me. And thus, that is how I found myself here, traveling the country.
“I don’t know all the answers, but if you want to be happy get into the flow of happiness. When the time presented itself to take this journey, my heart said, ‘go. Go on a journey. Go NOW!!!’ It took me all of an hour to decide to take this journey, and when I made the decision I didn’t look back. I left the business I had created, my home, my established community and my sense of security with less than $70 a month to live on.
What I did have was the desire and willingness to have faith that Life, God, the Universe, you pick the name, would provide for me. And thus, here I am. I’m not thinking about living life. I’m not planning to live life. I AM living life. I’m not any better than other people. I was simply willing to act on what my heart asked of me. Where I felt it leading. Everyone is capable of this. I encourage you to do the same.”
With that I left them. They were very appreciative of what I said, and it seemed to be what the guy needed to hear as he had been wanting to leave his job and pursue a dream to work in the forest service. I realized it would be a financial cutback for him and it would require changing his vision of the dream life that had been instilled in him, but I hope he made that choice. The heart sees things the mind sees not. Perhaps picking up a hitchhiker that day was one of the best things for him.
Frankly, I recommend picking up a hitchhiker. That should help clear everything up 4-6 weeks.
Epic speeches are great to have, but now it’s time for the main event. The thing you avoided fifteen minutes of your work day for. To hear about the ride I feared I may not come out of.
When they dropped me off, I made my way to the onramp where I waited a good hour before I was picked up. I was driven all the way to the point where the cities stop and there is a long stretch of nothing. The guy was very cool and told me if I didn’t land a ride he’d come grab me and let me stay at his place. I was very grateful, but wanted to push on. It was a decision I would almost regret.
The sun was setting and the place I was at was rather…sketchy. Only problem was there weren’t many options after that. I stood under a street light, feeling like a hooker with a hoodie, trying to catch something besides chlamydia that would take me North bound. After about 45 minutes of waiting and not particularly liking the area I was in, I picked up my bag and prepared to leave. That’s when he showed up.
A dark, maroon van pulled up in the turn lane and a bald man with a goatee yelled out the window, “where you going?”
“LA” I shouted as my hopes rose, thinking I may have landed a ride just when I thought I was finished here. Those hopes, like milk tucked behind the radiator, quickly turned sour.
“How much money have you got?” Not exactly a question you want to hear from a guy in a van in a questionable neighborhood. Skeptical, I told him $5. If this guy was looking to rob me, I wanted to make it as far from worth it as possible.
“$5!” he snorted and looked away in disappointement. Then he pulled his van towards me and yelled “quick, get in!” In that moment my instincts became very wary and I hesitated over whether or not to take this ride. I asked him how far he was going and he said “we’ll talk about it.” This was starting to look bad.
Let me tell you a little something about desperation. It makes you do things you often don’t want to do. Whether it’s jumping out of an airplane to impress an adventurous boy, or stealing recipes from Chef Boyardee who is clearly a made man in the mafia, desperation can land you in some hairy spots. So when this sketchy guy told me “we’ll talk about it” it, I knew desperation for a ride was landing me in an undesirable situation.
No one steals from Don Ravioli!
I opened his van door and found what looked like his entire life inside. Sitting on top of it all was a little Chihuahua that looked at me with snarling eyes as if I were intruding onto his territory. I looked back into my memory banks to see if crossing a chiuaua was the Mexican equivalent of crossing a black cat. I tossed my stuff in and jumped in the front seat. Immediately, he sped off. Immediately my hand went for my mace canister.
The energy of that car was instantly defensive and uncomfortable. Typically, when someone picks me up, I want them to take me as far as possible. In this case however, I was looking for any excuse to get out of the car.
25 Cent Lemonade: the universal excuse for getting out of the car
Trying to warm the tension I told him thanks for picking me up. He shrugged it off with a grunt. I tried as best I could to keep the mood light, happy and as far away from me being skull fucked as possible. This man was very skiddish and it seemed that any moment he might bludgeon me unconscious and take me to some dark cave where the could do things found only in the Sodomite’s version of the Karma Sutra. That or I might be his food for the next three weeks. Oh cinema, how you put such lovely images into our heads.
My hand had pulled the mace canister out of my pocket and was on the locked and ready position. My left arm was ready to do any sort of judo block move to keep him from knocking me unconscious. I was sitting there chatting lightly, while below my neck I was poised and positioned like a jungle cat, ready to pounce and go all out if things went south.
Prepare to taste some Kung-Fu, Calvin and Hobbes style!!!
When I began to ask about himself, he started down a path of dark, painful memories that left me wondering what sort of person I was riding with. ”Man, if you only knew what I’ve been through” was his opening line. Please tell me, so I know whether or not I should also reach for my big knife. From problems in the military to being kidnapped and held hostage, he spouted out tragedy after tragedy like a poetry swap between Chris Isaak and Shakespeare.
I wasn’t certain if this guy was crazy or not, he just sat there driving with that little dog in his lap, looking at me with ferocious eyes. It didn’t help my mental state when I remembered that the villain in Silence of the Lambs also had a little dog. Had this guy named it Precious I think that would have been the final nail in the coffin. I kept trying to keep a cheery attitude in hopes that maybe if my energy was just sunny enough, the instinct in him that resembled that of Norman Bates might be lulled into reconsideration.
The 20 minutes it took to get to a rest stop was one of the longest of my life. My knuckles were white from gripping that mace canister, and I think I replayed every Jet Li movie I’d ever seen in my head twice, trying to collect any amount of moves that might save me from potential doom. When we pulled into the rest stop, I breathed a silent breath of relief. I was for one alive and unharmed, and two, in a public area. It’s much more difficult to get away with meat cleaving someone when there are kids playing soccer all around.
Kids playing soccer: the last line of defense
Oddly enough, it was at this moment, things took a turn in a way I did not expect.
This man who had seemed so defensive, hostile and balls to the walls sketchy, suddenly transformed. He dropped that outer layer and opened up to me. He explained his life situation and all that had been happening to him recently. Though I was still very eager to get out of that car, I slowly relaxed more and more as I took in what he said. He eventually told me that he would be willing to take me to LA if we could work out a deal financially.
What I began to see was that this guy was actually wanting to help me out, but that he simply did not have the means for gas to do so. I realized that I had some extra money, but was still hesitant if I wanted to ride with this guy. It could all have been an act, but my intuition said otherwise. This guy appeared to be sincere. After some negotiating, we agreed on a price for which he would get me to where I needed to go. As we sped off I knew that one way or the other, I was in this and if I had made a mistake, I was going to own it soon enough.
Here you are. The mistake special with extra regret on the side.
What I did would make most any parent slap their head. Anyone watching this in a movie would have been yelling “run bitch, run!!!” like it was the Detroit version of Forrest Gump (oddly and completely unintentionally, I have now in this blog made reference to both Tom Hanks movies in which he won Oscars). But I made the decision to stay. There have been many times in my life when my initial impression of someone proved to be incorrect. Though this was certainly a gamble, this proved to be one of those times.
As we made our way to Orange County (where a high school acquaintance agreed to pick me up from), this man suddenly opened up a completely knew side of himself. A much deeper spiritual side. His words began pouring out in a way that made it seem as if he had been storing these words for years and had been waiting for someone, anyone to listen.
With every mile my body relaxed and I began to see that this guy was legitimately trying to help me out. He wasn’t out to mutilate me and feed me to his over grown rat. He wanted his life to be love driven and so he picked me up and did what he could to help me out. He wasn’t getting a financial reward from it, just the knowledge that he had been of service.
We eventually pulled into Orange County where he dropped me off and bid me farewell. I shook his hand and thanked him. As I looked in his eyes, I was amazed to see how differently he now looked to me as opposed to the first moment we met. Life is a beautiful thing, and in this case, it showed my beauty that was hidden deep beneath the rocks.
Was what I did foolish? Probably. Was it dangerous? Most certainly. Could things have turned out very differently? Absolutely. I can hold little credit to myself as much of what I did was acting in desperation and faith that Life will continue to provide for me. In this one instance I was given a gem that I most certainly did not expect. Let it be known here, that sometimes in life when you’re looking for its wonder, even your less sensible choices can lead you to treasures.
Tune in next time when I come to face the city that had barred me from its boarders for over a decade and how I was once against almost foiled from entering.
Place: Gaslamp District - San Diego, CA
Venue: Gas Lamp Speakeasy
Bar Tender: Heath
Being a Culinary Artist, I’ve always been facinated by food pairings. However, the thing that intrigues me almost as much if more, is mixology. Good mixology. I went to the Gaslamp Speakeasy to watch Whitney Shay perform with her jazz group and dance a bit.
I was welcomed into a warm and comfortable environment that broke away from the loud and obnoxious bars that liter the streets of so many cities. Here was a place someone could go to sit back, enjoy awesome music and taste drinks that truly took your taste buds on a journey.
Behind the bar was a single tender. His name was Heath. I made my way to the bar, sat down and told him I was a chef fascinated by flavor combinations. At this he pulled out a small sample of an infused whiskey, gave it to me and we began rousing about the history of bar tending and the intiqucices of mixology. As we talked I sipped down samples of rhye whiskies infused with bacon and fennel and simple syrups with tarragon, lavender and honey.
Heath was a true craftsman who prided himself in his art. In between our talks I watched him whip up drink after drink with a careful eye that showed he put his passion into each cocktail he mixed up. It was no wonder that after a year since its opening this place had begun to blossom in this famous part of San Diego.
As the night closed he kindly poured me a shot of Jamison on the house (just one of many free drinks he graced me with as we talked). I asked him why someone should choose his bar over visiting any others around this part. Beyond the comfortable atmosphere, great character of people and intoxicating jazz and blues music, he said it was the hands on bartending.
“Many of my customers don’t even order from the menu,” Heath said. “I simply talk to them. Get to know them, find out what they like and what they don’t like. Once I know that I’ll either make something from the menu that fits or whip up something spontaneously on the spot.” That my friends, is the mark of a true craftsman.
Drinks To Try:
Carver Old Fashion - peanut infused rhye, honey syrup and a dash of orange bitters
Moon and Stars - basil and watermelon muddled, gin and St Germaine
Emerald Gin Fizz - muddled cucumber, tarragon simple syrup, Bombay sapphire gin, lemon/lime juice and eggs whites
My entry into San Degio was a momentous occasion. I had successfully crossed the entire country and had remained housed, fed and unmolested by truckers. I was very proud of myself and incredibly blessed to get to celebrate it by walking to the ocean, my favorite geographical feature. Standing on the edge of a cliff soaking in the salty air in the early morning was truly a homecoming moment.
A lot happened in San Deigo, only thing was most of it was done under a haze of fantastic booze. I drank more that week than I did all year combined, but it was well worth it. I was being hosted by absolute favorite host Jeff Eldridge. A man so singularly fantastic to be hosted by that I have yet to encounter his equal (that doesn’t mean I don’t greatly appreciate all of you who have hosted me. I do!). If you’ve been hosted by Jeff than you understand.
To commemerate my crossing of the continent I decided to make a San Diego slideshow for you all. You can enjoy the little snippets that happened in my week long stay in the sunny south of California.
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I entered the coast in rags, facebook tags, with a scruffy do and half eaten block of cheese.
Through a brilliant network marketing program called, “Feed Me I’m Homeless” I quickly rose to riches where I feasted in extravagance. That’s right, the extravagant eat off of paper plates! What of it?
“Let them eat cherry, apple and pumpkin pie, each cooked in its own cake and then baked in a larger cake” becomes my new motto as I quickly develop the unique habit of whipping my ass with the $500 bills from Monopoly to imagine what it it’s like to feel superior to everyone else.
Being a chef, I decide to taste the local flavors to get an idea of what meals to prepare.
Unfortunately the local wildlife follows suit and tries to figure out what best to pair me with. ”I said no teeth!!!”
Decide to test the relationship between cooking and back massages to see if any correlation existed between the two.
My conclusion: cooking is fantastic!!!
Go to local bar to see whether or not all this traveling has changed my appreciation of hot bartenders and great boobs. It takes less than 30 seconds to find it has not.
Decide that in order to win the hearts of such Greek Godesses I must practice my advanced Zoolanderesque look I have aptly called “Black Chrome Rod”. I hope the possibilities for misinterpretation work to my favor.
It proves to be quite effective, however it sometimes attracts the wrong market. ”If I just pretend that I’m really absorbed byFarmville, maybe he’ll leave me alone.”
Want to cook dinner again so I run out to grab food supplies, but after 30 minutes of getting nowhere I realize I had accidentally walked into an elliptical machine that kept me in one place. I promptly yell “crap!!!” then grab a book and begin reading to feel better about life.
Still manage to cook delicious salmon meal despite the efforts of the culinary opposed exercise equipment. In its attempts to keep me fit, it forgot salmon is rich in Omega 3s. Who looks like the idiot now Schwinn model 430?
DJ blues at Lindy by the Bay, set up by Jeff Eldridge, a beautiful dance that is highly worth attending. Realize that many in San Diego have been greatly affected by school budget cuts, as most are unfamiliar with the primary colors. When told I would dj blues, they stood perplexed and confused to what that actually was.
Being in a city surrounded by so many military bases, the beautiful Leanna is inspired to sneak me away to a delicious dinner so she can apologize for things like World War 2, David Hasselhoff and Germany’s excessively long words like trockenbeerenauslese making it near impossible to want to learn the language. Upon hearing this I say, “it’s about time someone apologized to me for such things.”
The meal is delicious. I decide the US can now be at peace with Germany due to its pampering of my over-inflated sense of narcissism.
We celebrate the newly founded peace with an incredibly appropriate drink: the Irish Car Bomb. Saluting peace the IRA way.
I bid adieu as I make my way North to the land of stars, cars and smog-ilicious Christmases. I’m talking about a little place called L.A.
Tune in next time when I talk about the ride that had be gripping my mace, awaiting to use it at any moment.
Many people have had angels come into their lives to help them in some way or another. Few though have had that angel come with multiple tats and a handle bar mustache. Perhaps the lack of attracting such figures into one’s existance draws roots from the image of Harley bar fights or the connection to Sons of Anarchy. Or maybe the belief that help could not come from such a character stems back all the way to the kid you grew up with who hit puberty when he was six and grew a similar mustache. You know the one. He’s the reason you had to pan handle for lunch money.
Bet you didn’t know hitting puberty came with full tactical gear? Now fork over the cash or you’ll never see A Hannah Montana Christmas again
Mark Twain had it right though when he said “travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow mindedness” cause when a Dodge truck pulled over and out came a gravel chewing, motorcycle hoggin war vet, I was in such desperate need for a ride, I was more than willing to see past such social trip wires.
Many have taken drives with unruly kids in the backseat who scream and yell. One holds their pointed finger inches from their younger sibling’s face, exclaiming “I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you” while the other screams and the veins in your forehead fill with the blood of the Hulk because they expand in size to a degree where they can be seen from the space shuttle. Or even worse, the constant and incessant droning, laced with the agony of the human cargo of a slave ship that oozes out of their mouths causing you to see genocide as a viable disciplinary option. The kind of droning that goes, “are we there yet? I’m bored! Why are we doing this” and makes you want to drive the car into an embankment doing 75.
“I swear to Christ if those kids don’t shut up, Nick Cage is gonna drive this car right into that bridge embankment. I’m the only Ghost Rider comin back from the dead on this vacation.”
Well for the first four miles of my walk into the long stretch of desert where even the homeless, the poor and those unsatisfied with the current state of our economic distribution rates would not dare to occupy, my brain acted just like one of those kids.
The one thing that kept me going was this unique feeling. The one that made me feel like I was supposed to do this. That by venturing out into the unknown I was going to be taken care of. Those feelings it turned out (since I’m obviously writing this now) were correct, for when a Dodge truck pulled up and Harley Man Randy hoped out, I found myself face to face with my desert savior, one of the most unique and curious characters I’d yet met on my journey.
“Don’t let the way I’m holding my cigarette fool you. I’m 260 pounds of heterosexual battle armor!!!”
Armed with a golf cart he just inherited and an incredible gift for gab, Randy peeled down the highway, mouth sputtering non-stop with story after story. He was a bear of man, with the opinions and prejudices of a back water southerner and the joyful heart of jolly ol’ Saint Nick. Such a curious pairing and just another testament that this world is not served up in black and white.
He offered to get me within two hours of San Diego if I would help him unload his newly aquired golf cart. I said for a four hour lift, I’d paint the thing. Making our way West, I found myself swept up into story after story of this fascinating man. He was an electrical engineer who was famous for doing customized Harley motorcycles (hence the name). Since he was in high school, he had been working on them, painting them and showing them off in competitions, many of which he had won.
As he showed me pictures of the bikes he’d made and the hot woman who posed on them, he waxed lyrically about different tales ranging from the one he sold to Jay Leno, to how he took Reese Witherspoon out for a bike ride and to help her buy motorcycle gear (his daughter worked in show business), all the way to the massive sex parties with biker chicks after competitions. My personal favorite however, was his surprise sell to a famous Las Vegas BBQ.
Real and honest. The kind of BBQ you can take home to mom and dad
When one of the top guys in Jack Daniels came to pick up a bike Randy had customized for him, he noticed something interesting Randy had made that was sitting in his garage. It was a Harley with a sidecar, the one an extra passenger can sit in However, he had turned the side rig into a fully functional grill making it a BBQ on wheels, the ultimate tail gate accessory.
Upon seeing this, the guy asked him if he could airbrush the name of Famous Dave’s BBQ, a highly popular Vegas eatery, on the side. Randy said of course and did it under the promise that it would be worth it for him to do so. When the bike was ready, the two of them set off to meet famous Dave and show him this fantastic creation.
Apparently the Jack Daniels guy knew Dave personally. He brought him out to see this incredible bbq bike with the name of his restaurant on it. After seeing it, he immediately wanted it.
“Will you sell that to me?”
“Sure. How much?” Now it should be noted that Randy spent all of about eight grand putting this bike together. If he could land 25 grand, that would be an awesome payday. The offer he was given took him completely by surprise.
“A hundred and twenty five grand.”
“Sold!”
I was amazed. That’s quite the pay day. ”And what did you do with the money?” I asked him.
“Paid off my house.” Let it be known, that in the Harley/BBQ world, sometimes you can not only triple your investment, you can whatever the word for twenty is in the “uple” word lineage. That bike can be seen at Famous Dave’s in Reno, Nevada.
After about an hour we pulled into Datesville, a place where they grow dates in hordes.
Here he treated me to my first ever date shake. A milk shake made from the fresh dates growing right behind the store. I must say, when it comes to milk shake flavors, it’s going to be hard for anything to beat the flavor of those. The pairing of ice cream and the sweetness of a date are perfect for each other. Anytime you make your way through Datesville be sure to grab one.
I love you this much Date Shake
Randy was quite the travel companion and one of the absolute best treats for a hitchhiker. When we got into talking about favorite Westerns and I told him 3:10 to Yuma was mine, he took me to see Yuma penitentiary, the prison the movie revolved around.
All this way for a wall. How do people keep making these places sound interesting?
When we approached the sand dunes and I gawked over how beautiful they were, he pulled over and let me go run up and down them. Fittingly enough they were called the Buttercup dunes, so I felt my journey as Wesley from The Princess Bride had come full circle. Had there been any ROUS’s around, I think the world would have stopped spinning for a full minute and thirteen seconds just to soak in the wonder. As a joke he told me to run up them barefoot to really get the full experience. I didn’t realize this was a practical joke until I started my way back down and felt what a chicken breast must feel when you put it into a 350 degree oven. I ran up laughing and I ran back down screaming. My feet were on fire.
There’s a shortage of perfect sandy mounds in the world. Would be a pity to waste an afternoon not playing on these.
Though Randy was entertaining, he wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops. He was a war vet and a man who was proud to be an American. So much so he held a lot of strong racist thoughts towards other groups which I found to be distasteful. It’s an awkward position to be in when you’re riding with someone who can hold some offensive views you don’t share. Even more though when you’re hitchhiking and depend on rides.
I could understand why he felt hostility towards those in the middle east. He had been shot one night while on guard duty. It wasn’t serious, only a wounding, but what happened to him next left a more permanent scar. In a panic he looked to see where the shot had come from, but being that it was dark he was unable to. He heard another shot and saw where the flash had come from as a bullet whizzed by him. He unloaded his clip in the direction of the blast. There were no more shots after that.
They found the shooter dead from gun shot wounds. It had been a young boy. Being a family man, Randy said that was a very difficult pill to swallow. He had no regrets defending himself, but said it was very hard knowing that he had shot a kid.
His prejudices spilled onto the Mexicans as he would go on tyraids with ethnic slurs showing his distaste for what he felt they were doing to our economy. Being so close to the boarder he had more of a front line experience. Yet despite all of this, he was a very kind, warm and loving guy. He really had a heart for people. It’s so interesting seeing those contrasted. How someone with such a big and generous heart can feel such animosity for certain groups.
We pulled into the lot where he kept a trailor along with multiple others in his work force. Being that all of them traveled to different places to do construction, they had to set up temporary residencies wherever they went apart from their actual homes. I helped him unload his golf cart and he took me for a spin. You never saw someone so happy to have a golf cart. We shot around at the break neck speed of 15 mph as he hollared and flirted with every Y chromosome we came across.
Hey baby, wanna see my driving wood?
When we pulled up to his trailor, he said, “Wesley, I’ll make you a deal. You go ahead and get yourself a shower, and I’ll BBQ us up some dinner. You can stay here tonight and tomorrow I’ll drive you within an hour and a half of San Diego.” I wasn’t sure how the deal was working out in his favor, but I chalked it up to me being great company and him getting to tell me more of his stories.
I showered and changed after a three day stint of nothing. It was times like these that though I didn’t care for his distaste for gays, I was happy he told me. Nothing worse than having a 260 pound biker wanting to be your shower partner. When I finished he took me to the liquor store and bought us a few bottles of booze. At the checkout line he flirted with the sexy mexican woman behind the counter, telling me he’d been working on fucking her for weeks.
It should be noted that he was married, but was very open about his infidelities. He knew his wife was most likely doing the same thing and he was ok with it. To each their own, though it was a rather interesting experience later that night to be in the trailor as he blew off an apparent fling on the phone while doing so on speaker while I was in the room. Mildly awkward party of three.
Don’t mind me guys, I know this trailer’s small
Whatever your feelings on marriage, what I can say is that Randy through vocational skills, social skills and damn lucky timing scored quite the anniversary present for his wife. Randy had done some work for George Strait the country singer and so was invited to one of his big parties. While there he just so happened to run into none other than Bono.
“Who fuckin loves mullets?”
They chatted and bull shitted over drinks when Randy told him that for him and his wife’s 30th wedding anniversary he would take her to Ireland. Upon hearing this, Bono gave Randy his personal contact info and told him, “let me know when you plan to be there and I’ll take you both on a personal tour of Ireland, all expenses on me.” Now if that isn’t a wedding gift than I don’t know what is. Many wives would be happy to let their husbands bang the entire high school cheerleading squad for a deal like that.
The following morning around 5 am, Randy drove me into the mountains of California and dropped me off at a gas station. We said a brief goodbye as it was early and we were both tired. As I left I thought about how he had been such an interesting person and a fantastic host to me. Though I may not have agreed with everything about him, something that can be said about anyone, he took me in with great kindness, saving me from the sharp talons of the Arizona desert and took great care of me. He was wonderful company and gave without a shed of expecting anything back.
Everyone has their light side and their shadow side. Randy was more revealing of what we’d call his darker side. Though many may turn their nose at him and call his thoughts or actions that of a bigot or womanizer, he was upfront and open about it all. More than that, his kindness and enormous generosity were open for all to see as well. Say what you will about him, he laid himself out for the world to see unapologetically, and I for one admire that about him. I am very grateful for Randy as I was for the man who picked me up merely five minutes after beng dropped off in the mountains.
He drove me within 30 minutes of San Diego, just close enough to catch a ride from my all time favorite host, Jeff Eldridge. I had made it from one side of the country to another. I had done it. As a celebration, I would drink more in my one week in San Diego than I had the entire year combined. Tune in next time to catch all the juicy details.
I had reached Casa Grande in my flat bead chariot around 11 AM. When I looked around I was hit with what I imagine a farmer from the old west would experience seeing Carson City for the first time. As a hitchhiker this place was perfect. There were three large trucks stops, hotels and motels aligned like corn fields, it was the meeting place of two major interstates, and best of all, cars and trucks passed onto the off ramp in droves. In my head I simply thought, “this will be a piece of cake.” A piece of cake…
You know I was a kid once and I took my job pretty seriously. I did all the kid stuff. Trampolines, sleep overs, creating elaborate tactical plans to steal lunch money, I did it all. More than that though, I listened to Bill Cosby. I not only heard about how a father could be exalted by five unruly kids into the eschalons of the gods by doing one simple act: giving them chocolate cake.
Well I didn’t stop at just listening, I actually went all in. As a kid, I even ATE chocolate cake! I know, I know, some of you may think I was crazy or too young, but life is about exploring and experimenting the life expectancy of your teeth. Despite the devilishly sinful flavor of this moist dessert, I learned a few things over my years of experimenting with it.
Chocolate cake: the gateway drug to Heroine and Justin Bieber
Cake has a heartbreaking tendency to go stale, and when it goes stale it loses that heavenly texture you cake eaters out there know and love. There are many ways it could go stale and hard. It could be left out uncovered like a homeless kid in the Chicago winters, fall into a vat of cement, get dumped by chocolate frosting over and over again, and/or have a bad tendency of turning to face Gomorrah as fire reigns down from Heaven (it can’t be held responsible in this case, as Lot’s wife in the rush to get out, forgot to wipe her face of cake crumbs). Whatever the reason, cake can go stale. It can go hard. It can become unpalatable.
When I say it was going to be a piece of cake, I soon learned that this was a cake made in 1942, left uncovered in a wind tunnel beneath a heat lamp. Around 11 PM, after over 12 hours of watching car after car go by (typically between 10-20 for each light), I decided I was fed up and done for the night. What the hell was the matter with people? This wasn’t some desolate waste land with a population rivalling a Tiger Woods golf score, this was a metropolis of cars all going onto the very highway that led to San Diego. Did my sign say Gary, Indiana where not even the Terminator would be stupid enough to follow John Conner into? No, it said San Diego, right on their travel routes. And you know what stood between Casa Grande and San Diego? A whole lot of nothing. I knew where they were going, and I knew who they weren’t taking with them.
San Diego: Terminator friendly
Fortunately a Mexican woman stopped and gave me $5 which I used to buy a subway sandwich, a dinner I felt I’d earned after standing all day in the hot Arizona sun. That evening I found a giant dirt field and slept beneath the stars. There is one thing I have found I do love about Arizona, well two. The nights are typically warm and it is never short of large dirt fields to sleep in.
Remember when I talked about my choir’s drive to Greeley, CO and yelling at them to shut up and enjoy the scenic view of dirt? I didn’t realize it, but I was admiring earth’s beautiful mattress. Perhaps I could weasel my way into the Cosa Nostra by telling them I’ve taken multiple dirt naps and resurrected myself by the power of chocolate cake to return and tell the tales. Being that most of them will be Catholic, they may think I’m Christ returned. Nothing like posing as Jesus to get some free tortellini.
“You a Bible reader? There’s this little passage I have memorized.”
The following morning I awoke with the sun and made my way to one of the local hotels to share in a “complimentary” continental breakfast. Sometimes people give me flack for what I bring on my trip as a hitchhiker, but there is something I have learned. Image counts, and if you can find ways to make yourself look less threatening and less like a hitchhiker, it can be incredibly helpful in certain situations. Walking into the breakfast with Bose headphones and an iPhone made everyone believe I was supposed to be there. Wearing a garbage bag and smelling like Calvin Klein’s Frech perfumme line called “Unshowered” would work far less.
After breakfast came a very pivotal moment for me. I had to make a decision of whether or not I would stay in Casa Grande where it was safe, had lots of cars and had a steady supply of food, water and death protection. Or would I venture forward into the Arizona desert which stretched out like a sea. Endless miles of sun scorched nothingness, where seldom is heard a discouraging word because anyone out that far would be labelled as a moron. It was a pivotal moment because I was really coming to the fence of trust. Did I really believe that what I needed would come? If I decided to start walking and nothing came, I would be in serious trouble.
There was something unique about the energy of that morning. It’s difficult to explain except that I felt a strong sense of calm and connectedness to everything around me. Like there was an invisible voice speaking inaudibly to me that everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect. Everything was going to work out. I wanted to be out in the desert, away from the hustle of the town, the loud cars and the carbon fumes. Only problem was, after Case Grande, there was practically nothing for hours and that’s in a car. This town held the opportunity for rides, bathrooms, water and get-out-of-death free cards. The desert held none of these except the mystery of the unknown, who sang her siren song to lure me out into the rocky crags of the barren sands. I had to make a choice.
“Burritos! Get your free burritos here!”
As I approached the on ramp, something inside of me just said “go”. It wasn’t loud or threatening, nor did it make me feel like I was a coward if I didn’t do it. It was voice that came as a feeling, gentle and soft. The draw to leave this town and begin walking into the vast stretch of unknown emptiness just seemed to call to me. I came to the light and instead of dropping my bag and standing with my sign, I kept walking. Walking down the long road to the highway that would lead me to who knows where.
I don’t think I fully realized what I was doing at the time. Part of me half hoped that there would be scattered service stations along the way and I’d be ok if I got too far and into trouble. What I do know is that for about four miles, my brain was screaming at me “are you fuckiing crazy?!?! What the hell are you doing? You’re going to kill us!!!!” For the first few miles I felt like I was completely off my rocker. The temptation to go back was incredibly strong. The farther I got, the harder it would be for me to get back. If I found myself without water, I would be up shit’s creek. I would have to throw myself into oncoming traffic to get someone to stop for me.
How the Voice saw me
How my brain saw me
Still, this quiet yet seductive voice kept telling me to keep walking. I felt enraptured by my surroundings as blank and dismal as they might seem to many. There was something pulsing inside of me that was spiritual and powerful. I walked singing Horse With No Name over and over again, basking in the poetry of that song and its relevance to my current situation. It’s one thing to go to the desert, it’s quite another to walk through it on faith.
Fortunately for me, that voice sent me an angel. And that angel came as a biker with a handlebar moustache. Tune in next time when I tell you about Harley Man Randy and how he scored a personal tour with Bono from U2.
My exodus out of Phoenix was a mix of both bitter and sweet. Some might call it bitter sweet, but I find those two words have been tied to matrimony for so long that no one has bothered to ask them if they’re really happy that way. Perhaps they want some time apart, and so for the sake of this one paragraph I am going to give it to them. This one paragraph.
When’s bitter coming home? I miss, I miss.
My bittersweet exit was in fact not bittersweet at all. As I began writing this, it was the first word that sprung to mind so I wrote it. Now that I’ve embellished with two paragraphs of spotlight it would seem silly to go back and erase all of that. No, I will simply say it was not bittersweet or bitter followed by sweet, but in fact disappointment followed by appreciation.
After leaving my fantastic host, Laura Czarzasty, who in her amazing wonderfulness graced me with so many delectable culinary treats that I felt in Heaven for a few days, I went to see my old friend Abby. She’s not old, but we’ve known each other longer than six months which technically doesn’t count as an old friend, but writing quasi-old friend just makes me sound pretentious.
The first was too old. The second was too young. The third was too pretentious and how the fuck did they all turn into zombies?
Unfortunately, there had been a mix up and she was unable to house me for the night. Initially disappointed by our miscommunication, I wondered what I would do for the evening (and by do I mean, where would I stay?). Grace came upon me as a contrite heart and a swiped credit card. Abby felt so bad, though it wasn’t her fault, that she got me a room at a motel that was right off of the main highway on the outskirts of the city.
This turned out to be quite a blessing as getting out of the city is always time consuming and costly, whereas now she had helped me spring the shackles of urban currency suction and placed me right on the road to El Dorado, or at least its saving department.
I had been son long since I’d stayed in a motel that when I entered my heart immediately sprang into childhood mode. I threw down my stuff and began jumping from bed to bed, leaping up high into the air and falling on my back. Sometimes you have to use the word giggle, and this was definitely a moment where I giggled endlessly while I played.
Napoleon Dynamite’s greatest fantasy: showing off your nunchaku/remote control/umbrella/ asian afro-pic skills while taking your body off some sick jumps
After that I sat and enjoyed a night to myself. Now if hotels could offer one more thing, my recommendation would be mineral or baby oil. Trying to jerk off using hotel conditioner is just…like riding sub-coach on a plane. I don’t even know what sub-coach is, but if they had one, I’d label it motel conditioner. You’d have first class, business class, coach and motel conditioner. But as Jafar said, desperate times call for desperate measures, so I decided to give my stiff cock a a chance to “de-friz” and to see if the promises of giving “extra volume” were in fact legit promises.
The next morning I awoke early to take advantage of those delightful continental breakfasts that I so often sneak in and steal. For once, I was legitimately eating one of these and I must tell you: it tasted exactly the same. Funny, I thought perhaps it might have shreds of deliciousness that those on death row claim to have experienced during their last supper. My legit continental breakfast had no twinges of ecstasy. No hints at “this is the last free one you’ll be having for awhile.” It simply tasted like raisin bran and oranges.
Really not caring, I finished breakfast, grabbed my stuff and hit the road. I had a nervous and excited feeling in my stomach. Being that I was in Phoenix on my way to San Diego, I looked at the map and there was very little between the two. Never in my life had I hitched across that much open territory. I wasn’t sure what to expect. All I knew is that I had to get moving and try. Let the Fates bring what they’ll bring.
My favorite kind of Fate: the one that brings me ice cream
I made my way down the big long highway clothed in a shirt, pants and near 100 degree temperature. The sun I find loves on you when you’re in the desert. Much different than when you’re in the northwest. It didn’t take more than 30 minutes when I was once again visited by one of my old friends, Captain Police Officer: the rash of hitchhikers around the world.
He showed up with the same line I’d head before. “Hitching is illegal within the city limits of Phoenix.” Well I had heard that in Tucson so it didn’t surprise me that it was the same here. However, once again I was pleased to find that he was a very cool cop.
He asked me what I was doing and I told him I was discovering the good in humanity. He seemed to like this. Being a good samaritan with an uncomfortable back seat, I was once again cheuffered by a trooper to the nearest gas station. He said as long as I hitched from the side of the onramp I’d be ok and that he would be the only one patrolling these parts so he wouldn’t give me any trouble.
Pretty soon, I’m going to be known as Mrs. Daisy by highway patrolmen
Thanking him I put my stuff down and walked to the onramp to catch a ride. After 20 or 30 minutes of nothing I decided to try a new approach: throwing rocks at people’s windshields. If my sign wasn’t going to stop them, my fastball sure as hell was. And once they saw the heart of gold beneath the All-American ballplayer they’d have to give me a lift.
After recovering from this delusion, I thought of a better way. I walked to the nearest gas station and started asking people for rides. I almost caught one, but was eventually kicked off the property by management. Apparently people need to focus on their gas pumping so as not to blow up the premises. A legitimate reason.
I walked back again to the onramp and tried once more to catch a ride in a city that decided to pass a law making what I was doing illegal. Shouldn’t have any problems whatsoever here. Fortunately for me, there is always someone who votes the other way, and he just happened to pass by.
I say yes to hitchhiking and the freedom to moon local magistrate
A Mexican man and woman pulled up in a pick up telling me they could take me down to Casa Grande, a major truck stop hub. Yelling at me to move quickly as they were in the middle of the road, I threw my stuff in the back as they began to pull away. Running I jumped into the trailer bed and sat back enjoying the sun and the wind whipping my hair. There are few things better than riding in the back of a pickup. Doing so while you’re hitching is one of the most encapsulating moments of what it feels like to experience pure freedom.
This may appear to be just a road to you, but this is the image of freedom
I smiled widely as they sped down the highway passing cars that had driven by me without picking me up. Others we passed gave me a thumbs up seeing my bag and recognizing what I was doing. When they pulled up to Casa Grande I could see they meant what they had said. It was the conversion of two main freeways, one of which went on to San Diego. There were multiple hotels and three large large truck stops. If there was anywhere I was going to catch a ride, this was the place.
This is going to be easier than me in a Director’s office
I hoped out as the man came out from the driver’s seat and gave me a cold CapriSun. I was amazed they still made those as I had not had one since I was a little kid playing soccer. I shook his hand, thanked him, then made my way to one of the onramps. I stood for a moment in awe at how many cars were going onto the highway. This should be a piece of cake.
If only I knew. If only.
Tune in next time to hear about the mind boggling wonder of kindless drivers, my long night and my decision to walk into the arms of death.
To enjoy the lush wonders of the palate while hitchhiking, one must have patron saints. For me, my culinary muse came in the form of the wonderful Laura Czarzasty, patron saint of wondering hitchhikers with an appetite for deliciousness.
Sometimes, getting a patron saint requires laying out chains for which to catch them. Didn’t I just score lucky.
After my time spent with her, I discovered a recipe that would make anyone with a tongue for food enjoy a few nights in Phoenix, AZ.
1. I begin with a simple amuse bouche, but instead of eating it, I drink it. All the nutrient wonders you’d find cascading out of a German diet we discovered within eight different microbrews at the Four Peaks Brewery.
So we kinda sorta had two big ones to boot. Who’s counting but the tip share?
2: Follow that with a main course of their incredible shrimp and goat cheese bruchetta made from homemade focaccia, topped with tomatoes, fresh basil, extra virgin olive oil, goat cheese and citrus marinated grilled shrimp. Finish it off with their panko crusted calamari. This was the thickest, most succulent calamari I have ever had, like biting into a rope made of butter. I have never been so turned on by squid.
See those things on the right that look like chicken tenders? That’s calamari from the Giant Squid that faced down Mega Shark to the death.
3. Spend an afternoon at the Oyster House, a home renivated into a local seafood hot spot that upon entering smells of beer, seafood, and horseradish. I feel in love immedietly. Nothing like enjoying oysters on the half shell when you’re sporting the name on your establishment. Say what you will about seafood in the desert, this was delicious.
See if you can find how these are an aphrodisiac. While you’re at it, try to find Waldo as well.
4. Be sure your patron saint is equiped with the proper cooking equipment. Realizing my host was caught in her own version of Prometheus Bound, forever tortured to sit and wither upon the rocks of a lack of proper cooking equipment, I made like an anti-Fleetwood Mac song, broke the chains and took her to the store to pick out some much needed kitchen accessories.
5. Steer yourself away from the store bought sludge, shoveled out in cans with liquid that carries with it 1,000 sodium concumbines all breeding and reproducing a saline solution that could turn iron to rust in a matter of minutes. Instead, try your hand at your own chicken stock, the base of so many great sauces.
Homemade Chicken Stock: Sodium Concubine Free
6. Though seafood may have been the theme thus far, one need not travel far from it to create slight variations. Seafood and cajun style cooking are a match made in heaven, and so when I decided to make cajun chicken and waffles with a spicy veloute, it kept me within the boundaries of my own weekend theme.
Who needs dick in a box when you’ve got this?
7. One must never eat all the bounty by oneself. Sharing with your fellow man and, as Mike Myers would put it in the style of beat poets, woah-man, always makes the simplest meal that more savory. Good food, good wine, and a reference to beat poets. Two out of the three of those ain’t bad.
8. Finish off with a sincere statement of gratitude. Thank you Laura for being a patron saint. I appreciate it ever so much.
Now, give it a try. All you need are a few chains, this good recipe and a little willingness in a city that doesn’t cater to hitchhikers.
